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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341054" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade<br>Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?<br>'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,<br>Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?<br>Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,<br>Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?<br>To bear too tender, or too firm a heart,<br>To act a lover's or a Roman's part?<br>Is there no bright reversion in the sky,<br>For those who greatly think, or bravely die?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul aspire<br>Above the vulgar flight of low desire?<br>Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes;<br>The glorious fault of angels and of gods;<br>Thence to their images on earth it flows,<br>And in the breasts of kings and heroes glows.<br>Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,<br>Dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage:<br>Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years<br>Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;<br>Like eastern kings a lazy state they keep,<br>And close confin'd to their own palace, sleep.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From these perhaps (ere nature bade her die)<br>Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky.<br>As into air the purer spirits flow,<br>And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below;<br>So flew the soul to its congenial place,<br>Nor left one virtue to redeem her race.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,<br>Thou, mean deserter of thy brother's blood!<br>See on these ruby lips the trembling breath,<br>These cheeks now fading at the blast of death:<br>Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before,<br>And those love-darting eyes must roll no more.<br>Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball,<br>Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall;<br>On all the line a sudden vengeance waits,<br>And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates.<br>There passengers shall stand, and pointing say,<br>(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way)<br>&quot;Lo these were they, whose souls the furies steel'd,<br>And curs'd with hearts unknowing how to yield.<br>Thus unlamented pass the proud away,<br>The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day!<br>So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow<br>For others' good, or melt at others' woe.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade!)<br>Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?<br>No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear<br>Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier.<br>By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,<br>By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,<br>By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,<br>By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!<br>What though no friends in sable weeds appear,<br>Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,<br>And bear about the mockery of woe<br>To midnight dances, and the public show?<br>What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,<br>Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?<br>What though no sacred earth allow thee room,<br>Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?<br>Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,<br>And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:<br>There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,<br>There the first roses of the year shall blow;<br>While angels with their silver wings o'ershade<br>The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,<br>What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.<br>How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,<br>To whom related, or by whom begot;<br>A heap of dust alone remains of thee,<br>'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,<br>Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.<br>Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays,<br>Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays;<br>Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,<br>And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart,<br>Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,<br>The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alexander+Pope">Alexander Pope</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341054" data-title="Elegy to the Memory of an Unfortunate Lady de Alexander Pope" data-description="What beck'ning ghost, along the moon-light shade
Invites my steps, and points to yonder glade?
'Tis she!--but why that bleeding bosom gor'd,
Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
Oh ever beauteous, ever friendly! tell,
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to..."></div>
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